


Sentiment

by HollyShadow88



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Post Reichenbach, Post-The Empty Hearse, Post-The Sign of Three, Pre-The Empty Hearse, Pre-The Sign of Three, Sentimental Sherlock, a touch of angst, basically just me venting on the feels, but it all works out in the end, many much feels, random oc thrown in there to spice things up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-16
Updated: 2014-03-16
Packaged: 2018-01-15 22:00:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1320685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HollyShadow88/pseuds/HollyShadow88
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three ways in which Sherlock's sentiment peeks through, and the various ways those around him are forced to deal with the situation.  Transitions from The Empty Hearse into The Sign of Three.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sentiment

**Author's Note:**

> Hey there. Yeah, hi. So. First Sherlock fic on this site. Not my first Sherlock fic ever. This has actually existed for a few months, but wasn't really going to see the light of day beyond acting as a personal emotional outlet after my first viewing of The Sign of Three. As you can see, I changed my mind a bit on that. So have a thing and enjoy yet another OC, because heaven forbid I write a fic that doesn't involve a bloody OC for once.

The first time it happened, Olivia had no bloody idea what she was supposed to do.  
  
She heard of the empty flat at Baker Street from a friend and, having reached the point where anything that contained a roof and four walls would be more than adequate, contacted the landlady and set up an appointment to give it a visit. Mrs. Hudson was a pleasant woman, cheerful and only slightly over talkative, and 221C was decent enough, albeit slightly damp. She signed the appropriate forms that very afternoon, setting out to organize her very few belongings and transporting them into her new home within a few hours. As she stood studying the rather bleak space, hands rested comfortably at her hips, she let out a soft sigh. It needed work, lots of it, but God knew she had the free time for the task. She started a small fire in the grate and situated herself on the uncovered floor, legs crossed before her and notebook in hand, and began organizing her plans for the space.  
  
The renovation was going smoothly, all of the smaller rooms already gaining a much homier feel from the fresh coat of paint on the walls and vigorous waxing applied to the now sparkling wooden floors in her nearly fortnight stay in the flat. She left the central living space for last, quickly realizing that the large open area would prove to be the most difficult due to size. Peeling off the lid to her selected emerald green shade, Olivia swirled the paint thoughtfully, studying the walls with a careful eye as she considered her options. Giving herself a quick nod, paintbrush poised over the silky liquid, her concentration was interrupted by an abrupt scream from below that nearly caused her to topple forward and cover the floor in paint. Snatching up the first possible weapon she could in the nearly empty room, she all but vaulted down the stairs as she headed towards her landlady’s flat, certain that she was the one in distress.  
  
Mrs. Hudson stood quivering in the hallway, a frying pan clutched in nearly white knuckles as she gaped at a tall man who stood silhouetted in the doorframe. Olivia darted forward to block the older woman, raising her weapon toward the man in a defensive posture as she confidently held her ground. His blue-grey eyes darted down to study her face briefly before resting on what she held, a tiny smirk crossing his lips.  
  
“A sword,” he remarked, his voice unreasonably deep and holding just enough condescension to make Olivia bristle somewhat. “You hear someone screaming and choose, of all possible items, a sword. Slightly unorthodox, I admit, but not entirely inadequate, particularly if you actually know how to wield the thing.”  
  
“Surely you don’t expect me to own a sword without having at least a minimal understanding of how to defend myself with it,” Olivia replied with a touch of coolness in her tone, her grip tightening as she straightened. Her eyes narrowed as the man’s smirk widened. “I don’t know your business here, and honestly I couldn’t care less, but I suggest that now would be a good time to vacate the residence.”  
  
At that, Mrs. Hudson scurried forward, the frying pan falling to the floor with a deafening clatter. Olivia had no chance to grab at her as she launched herself at the man, wrapping her arms around his middle and sobbing into his enormous coat. She blinked slowly and uncomprehendingly at the scene, matching the man’s own surprise as he tentatively hugged her back. Sensing that perhaps he wasn’t quite as threatening as the woman’s initial scream indicated, Olivia lowered her weapon to her side, quirking an eyebrow in silent question.  
  
Three steaming mugs of tea and a few wailed half sentences (followed directly by more strangled hugging) later, the trio found themselves situated at the kitchen table of 221B, the man shooting Mrs. Hudson almost smiles as she clutched desperately at his free hand while demanding answers. Olivia, meanwhile, awkwardly sat across from the pair, her attention fixed more upon studying the flat that she hadn’t even realized was previously occupied. It held a mismatched cornucopia of items, all somehow swarming together into one giant disarray that told a fascinating story. Obviously she’d heard tales of the duo of men who once held the flat, the cold and calculating consulting detective and his straightforward and kind army doctor, but she’d begun to think they were no more than myth concocted by a bored media. Mrs. Hudson never mentioned either of them to Olivia, at the very least, and she hadn’t arrived in London until long after Sherlock Holmes was gone, so generally she thought little of who may or may not have once lived in the neighboring space.  
  
As Mrs. Hudson attempted to regain control, the man studied Olivia, earning the same attention right back. Eventually he released the landlady’s hand long enough to offer it to her, grasping her own smaller one in a firm grip. “Sherlock Holmes,” he stated simply, watching her face carefully for her reaction. “Thank you for looking out for Mrs. Hudson while I was away.”  
  
“Olivia Beckett,” she replied smoothly, quickly releasing his hand. “And I wasn’t aware I was looking after anyone. I’ve hardly even been here a few weeks.”  
  
Sherlock shrugged, allowing himself to become reattached to Mrs. Hudson without comment. “Wrong. You were willing to defend her, physically, against an individual whose bodily attributes appear to far surpass your own skills as well as put your own basic needs below hers, so regardless of how long you have been acquainted, you’ve obviously made it your task to look after her, at least to some extent. You may do with my thanks as you will, but it is offered either way.”  
  
Olivia blinked once, taking a quick sip of her tea before plunging forward. “Sherlock Holmes, then. I was under the impression you were dead.”  
  
“Indeed. Obviously I am not.”  
  
“Obviously.” She rolled her eyes and turned to Mrs. Hudson, who had calmed down considerably with the help of the warm cuppa in her grasp and the young man at her side. “All right, then, Mrs. H?”  
  
She sent her a watery smile, reaching out to pat at Olivia’s arm. “More than all right, my dear. As for you…” With a sharp crack, she slapped at Sherlock’s shoulder, causing him to wince almost unnoticeably at the minor pain. “What are you on about, young man, playing at this dead nonsense for two whole years? What were you thinking, Sherlock? And I swear to you, if you claim this to be one of those ruddy experiments of yours, I’ll have you know that it is not amusing in the least! Have you any idea what you’ve put poor John through?”  
  
At the mention of the name, Sherlock’s expression softened, his eyes searching Mrs. Hudson’s face desperately. “How…is John? I returned as quickly as I possibly could, though I couldn’t afford to jeopardize either you or him with the knowledge of my being not quite dead – “  
  
“Do you mean to tell me that you haven’t even seen him yet?” Mrs. Hudson shrieked, hand reaching out to slap at him again. To Olivia’s surprise, Sherlock allowed her to do so, taking it without a single sign of complaint. “Two years, Sherlock Holmes! You go to John Watson immediately and you fix this!” With a huff of irritation and a sharp nod, she rose to her feet and flounced from the room, leaving the two younger people to sit awkwardly behind. Sherlock sat stock still in his seat, completely ignoring his tea besides grasping on to the handle as though it were the only thing anchoring him to table, and stared sightlessly down into the light brown liquid. Shifting slightly at the sudden uneasiness, Olivia drained her own cup and stood.  
  
“Well, that was…interesting,” she remarked, chancing a glance over at him. His body jerked somewhat in reply, as though attempting to chuckle yet unable to find the will to actually follow through with the motion. Her brows furrowed together as she took in his defeated posture until eventually she reached forward to grasp lightly at his shoulder. He jolted at the motion, head jerking upwards to meet her eyes in questioning uncertainty. “I don’t entirely know what’s going on, and it certainly isn’t my business in the least, but…well, I’m just down the hall. If you need anything. Someone to talk to. Or. Yes. Anything.” He didn’t respond, leaving her to nod before turning to head back to her own flat. She was nearly out the door when his voice called out softly behind her.  
  
“Thank you.” She turned and raised a single brow at him, nodding once more as a tiny smile came to her lips. As she returned to her partially congealed can of paint, she caught the faint sound of retreating footsteps and the muffled sounds of a pair of voices floating up from Mrs. Hudson’s flat. Her smile widened as she set back to work, allowing her focus to return once more to her task.  
  
~~~  
  
The second time it happened, she at least had a vague, shadowy idea of what direction she ought to be heading in.  
  
Sherlock’s agitation nearly radiated down the street, the force of his emotion was so strong. Olivia had just situated herself at her computer screen, a blank document pulled up and waiting for her to begin, when the sounds of his stomping and growling floated up to her. With a soft sigh, she closed her laptop and set it aside, snatching up a jumper but ignoring her shoes to pad almost silently down to 221B. She found the door wide open, Sherlock pacing anxiously through the open space in a zigzagging pattern that appeared to be purposeless. Olivia paused to watch him for a moment, leaning against the doorframe with her arms crossed over her chest, and waited to see if he would notice her. Caught up as he was in whatever bothered him this time, she had to nearly shout his name before he spun wildly in her direction.  
  
“What on God’s green Earth has got you all riled up this time?” she demanded once she finally held his focus, her body pushing off from the wall to slouch onto his couch. A quick glance about the flat showed nothing out of place, although with Sherlock Holmes the problem could be subtle enough that anyone with less intellect that the genius himself had no chance of noticing. A discarded mug of tea sat unsurprisingly at the kitchen table, and Sherlock appeared to be making a point of avoiding eye contact with it. Curling herself up to sit cross-legged on the cushion, she drew his attention back to her by patting the seat next to her, resulting in the man resuming his pacing across the floor. She shook her head and watched him, eventually saying, “You’ll feel better if you’d bloody talk about whatever this is about, you know.”  
  
“Feel better,” he scoffed, hands jittering slightly as they swung at his sides. “This theory we as humans seem to have about all of our problems being solved through verbal discussion and interpersonal debate is utterly ridiculous. I’ve spent the better part of my existence caring for whatever issues occur without a single need for bringing it before a jury of my peers for dissection and debate.”  
  
“And yet you somehow always seem to bring humanity into it in some way, shape, or form by being unable to keep bloody quiet about it, so you might as well take advantage of the opportunity when it arises,” she shot back, narrowing her eyes at the man. He growled low in his throat in reply, continuing his pacing seamlessly. Huffing out a frustrated breath, Olivia uncurled herself and stalked to the kitchen, intent upon warming up his cuppa and forcing it down his throat with a funnel if need be. Something bobbed within the murky depths as she lifted it, however, causing her to screech to a halt.  
  
“Before you ask, yes, that is a human eyeball.”  
  
She turned slowly to face him, watching him pause to stare into the empty fireplace grate. “Dare I ask what kind of experiment involves soaking an eye in Earl Grey?”  
  
“The tea bit was unintentional.” He let out a sigh, running a hand roughly through his haphazard hair. “John wants me to be his best man.”  
  
Olivia carefully set the eye infested tea back onto the table, snatching up the kettle to brew a fresh cup. As the water set to work, she leaned against the counter and shot him a quizzical look. “And this is a bad thing because…?”  
  
He sighed once more, turning to throw himself into his chair. “It isn’t a problem, per say. More…a revelation than anything else.”  
  
“Is it honestly that surprising that he wants you to be his best man?” she asked, stalking forward to lean her elbows across the top of John’s armchair. “You are his best friend, after all. Typically, when choosing one’s best man, that’s the direction the groom tends to lean toward.”  
  
“How?” Sherlock muttered, obviously not having heard a word Olivia said. “After what I’ve done to him, how could he possibly still consider me his best friend, let alone of a material to perform best man duties?”  
  
“You’re rather dense for a genius, are you aware?” The insult, though given with friendly enough undertones, caused his attention to fixate on Olivia once more. His eyes narrowed across the space between them as he gestured for her to continue with an irritated yet graceful flip of his hand. She let out a breath of air slowly, curving a single elbow up to rest her chin on her hand. “Look, I haven’t been around for long, obviously, and all I know of your relationship pre-flailing over Bart’s roof is through others’ commentary, but from what I’ve seen you two are close. John has a few friends but not many close ones, and we all know that you’re…careful of letting too many people in. Obviously you are his closest, so obviously you would be his best friend, leaving him to obviously choose you as best man.”  
  
His brow furrowed as he considered her, hands coming to steeple in front of his lips. “It isn’t obvious to me.”  
  
She allowed her arm to fall, wrists crisscrossing over the edge of the chair as she watched him carefully. “Is it really this difficult to see that somebody likes you? Enough that he wants you to be a part of one of the most significant aspects of his life?”  
  
“It’s not as though it’s ever happened before.”  
  
His reply, automatic and emotionless, stunned her into silence. They remained frozen in their positions, each considering the words of the other until the shrill whistling of the kettle caused Olivia to jump. She hastily rushed back into the kitchen, preparing the cup with a smoothness that came from years of following the motions of the process for years, and carefully set it at his side. He ignored it, though she hadn’t expected anything different. Rather than bother him further, she returned to her own flat, though focusing on her work after such a conversation proved next to impossible. It wasn’t until she heard the scrounging scuffling of footsteps in the neighboring flat and the sound of a door clicking shut that she was finally able to craft some semblance of focus.  
  
~~~  
  
The third time it happened, she really, truly needn’t have even bothered.  
  
She’d been invited to the reception, technically, but ducked out not long after the ceremony, staying long enough to witness the first dance before heading back to her flat. Before she even had the chance to change, the sound of a lock sliding out of position and a door swinging open caught her attention. She shouldn’t have been surprised that Sherlock would want to avoid any excessive human interaction, but she never expected him to leave quite that early. Shrugging it off as one of the many mysteries of the man, she settled herself into comfortable pajamas and snuggled into bed, intent upon finishing up her next chapter before calling it a night. It was close to midnight when a sudden abrupt screeching of strings caused her head to dart up from the screen, eyes blinking rapidly in an attempt to see in the near pitch darkness.  
  
By the time she reached 221B, the scratching had morphed into a slightly slower version of the waltz he’d played at the reception, the notes of it shrinking into something much softer and forlorn. Inclined as he usually was towards the dramatic, he surprised her by sitting quite ordinarily on a stool in a lamp lit corner, the empty music stand waiting at attention beside him. His eyes were closed, shut but in a comfortable manner, as his fingers danced carefully across the strings. She silently chose a spot on the couch, curling her knees up to her chin as she listened to him play. Neither spoke until he reached the end of the piece, the instrument falling to hang limply at his side.  
  
“Well, that’s that,” he spoke into the quiet, lifting his arm to lay the bow across the stand. He leaned his violin carefully against the side of the couch before swinging himself backward to rest his back along the wall. “I suppose I didn’t muck things up as effectively as I might have.”  
  
“No, you did very well.” She attempted to catch his eyes, but he had shut them almost as soon as he finished playing. “You’re not okay.”  
  
“Obviously.” He sighed and rubbed at the bridge of his nose. “How do the rest of you people deal with this sentiment business on a daily basis? I’ve never felt so tired after doing so little in my life.”  
  
Olivia chuckled and shrugged. “It’s not like the rest of us as the option of shutting it off like a certain consulting detective I know.” Resting her cheek against her upturned knees, she frowned at his slump form. “Really, though, I suspect you are thinking far too into this whole business than you need to. Mary likes you, she sees how important you are to John and vice versa. Things change, but not all of them have to.”  
  
“She’s pregnant, did you notice?” he cut in, his voice particularly sharp. “Obvious. They’ll be rather more occupied in the coming months. Years, if we’re being truly honest.”  
  
Ducking her face into her knees, Olivia slowly shook her head. “I don’t know what to do with you, Sherlock Holmes. What the hell is it going to take to make you realize that not everything has to change?”  
  
A soft knock at the door caught both of their attentions. Still dressed in his evening finery, John stood in the doorway, a slight grin at his lips. He shot Olivia a nod in greeting as he strolled forward, stopping with his arms crossed before a stoic Sherlock.  
  
“You left early, you tosser,” he remarked, his smile falling slightly. “Everything alright?”  
  
Sherlock shrugged, taking on an air of indifference. “Bored. Receptions are tedious, John. Certainly you didn’t expect me to stay long.”  
  
John’s eyes narrowed slightly, the sharp blue calculating Sherlock’s expression carefully. They eventually widened and rolled theatrically as he stepped forward, arms outstretched. “Oh for…come here, you idiot.” Before Sherlock could react, he was pulled from his seat and into a strong hug, John muttering to him in a voice too low for Olivia to properly hear. She smiled softly as she stood, making her way back to her own flat without another word. The occasional burst of laughter, usually followed by familiar deep chuckles, made their way up from 221B, causing her grin to occasionally flicker back to life. Leave it to John Watson to be both the cause and remedy of Sherlock’s frustrating bursts of sentiment. Next time, she’d have to remember to keep him on speed dial.


End file.
